Demons
by Jeze Dantaliona
Summary: "John- Please say something when you answer the phone. The silence is boring. -SH."
1. Chapter 1

A drippy perspiration of dust hung through the air. Individual motes came to rest on the untouched violin, the untouched skull, the untouched (and molding) experiment lying on the kitchen counter. Faint scents of the mold and Mrs. Hudson's lasagna drifted through the flat, mingling with the dust and pervasive silence. John allowed all of this to happen not through depression, but for necessity and only a shade of the former.

The army doctor was not usually in the habit of slovenliness. Even after Afghanistan in his little closet of a flat, everything was dusted and white and clean. Granted, his psychosomatic limp did not allow for tripping over a stray humerus lying around, and now, he did not have that issue thanks to Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. And there went his daily allotment for saying his name. This was a nameless zone. As far as John was concerned, he mused as he made some tea, he was still here, just up in his room thinking about some new case, or out and about at the park studying scat trails or something. He certainly wasn't gone, even though he certainly was.

John knew. He knew Sherlock was dead, and that was all. He knew saying the name "Sherlock Holmes" held a certain monopoly on his life; however, he did his best to ignore the monopoly by ignoring the absence of it. Furthermore, he decided by ignoring his absence, it would feel as though Sherlock did come back, just for him.

Sometimes, when he was sleeping, John did think that Sherlock came back. In his sleep, he'd feel cold fingers tickle across his zygomatic arch; causing him to sleepily blink up and see his counterpart's apparition before it disappeared and he fell back into oblivion.

The phone rang too, sometimes, and when John answered it, it sounded like Sherlock was muttering something far off, and John didn't catch much besides the painfully familiar decibels before the line went dead. At first, John thought it was another hallucination, a simple conjuration that his mind built up to help him cope. But now, the rational doctor felt he was going insane.

He suddenly believed in demons. Nothing else could explain the increasingly insistent raps on the door, the whisper of a familiar voice over the steaming kettle or accompanying the touches in the middle of his sleep. Surely all of these things must be demons, something beyond his mind, leeching onto his sorrows and sucking him dry of any life he could have had left after- him.

It was a slippery slope into insanity, but the final fall was when John returned home from the surgery to see a note taped to his door. He figured it was from Mrs. Hudson, asking him to be a dear and fetch some milk for their weekly Sunday supper. Which is why when he opened it, he fell to his knees and became short of breath.

"John- Please say something when you answer the phone. The silence is boring. -SH."

John woke up to Mrs. Hudson shaking him away, her voice hitting notes the likes of which dolphins spoke in. He felt the crinkly streams of dried tears on his cheeks, and he realized the note that he held crumpled in his hand wasn't there.

"Oh dear, you gave me such a fright! I told you that you needed to cut back..." His mind closed to tune out the fussing woman, and he stood up silently and entered his flat. The poor old woman was still prattling on about him needing to do something about caring about something when he shut the door on her.

He scanned the room, and noted that everything was as he left it. The entity that had pervaded his being seemed to have left, and he was consumed with a feeling of numbness all over again.

And then suddenly, as John was about to be completely submerged in his melancholia, the phone rang. He started, and lunged for the telephone as if it was a life line, saving him from a death he came back from after Afghanistan.

"Hello?" he answered breathlessly, praying to the God that had to exist if

demons were real that it would be him, that he had left the note, that he wasn't crazy.

_That he was alive._

His eyes widened at an acknowledging crackle, and suddenly he heard something that brought him back to that day, that very second his soul was lost as demon food.

"I'm sorry, John."

* * *

><p>I have no idea whether or not I should continue this, or just leave it where it is. Any feedback is definitely welcome, and I hope you all enjoyed it.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

HIGH TIMES

Silence shouted at John, alarming him against this impostor, this ghost hiding

behind voices through cables and a couple of smudges on a paper. Silence hung

into John's memory and his rationale, reminding him it was the only truth he

could trust. Silent Sherlock in the morgue, the only time that description could

be assigned to him was in death, and that was real. There was frankly nothing

more real, more tangible than the absence of Sherlock. For months, that is what

affirmed John's position in the world- before, it was the deafening silence of

Afghan warfare, now it was (the silent flat riding on the dust attempting to

replace the dangerous noise) the uselessness, the noiseless, dull burning of an

incapacitated dependent half being torn from his omnipotent counterpart. But

now, it was silence mingling with cool breathing, waiting as though there was a

corporeal being on the other end, not some spirit speaking through the

telephone.

"John, this business of not answering is dull." And then, it wasn't silence

pressing into John's mind. Now there were questions, curiosity, a familiar edge

of vitality. Oh, this demon was good, very good.

"John. John. John."

"Yes what, Sherlock?" John cleared his throat in nervous disbelief. Why did this

feel familiar? What was this thing?

"Oh good, you can talk. I was beginning to think the voice I remember you having

was a transference from my skull to you." A beat passed. "How is my friend,

anyway?"

"Fine, I'm only talking to a dead man-"

"Not you, my skull. I've missed him."

"Ah, right, well, he's sitting right where you left him: abandoned, vacant, and

virtually useless," John bit back, not quite believing he was arguing with a

voice he was anthropomorphically giving a name. And to be honest, he was

becoming quite angry with this voice that had abandoned him for so long,

casually striking up a conversation over telephone as if fucking Sherlock had

really only gone away to get the fucking milk for once and he was calling to

check in on his precious skull instead of his best friend who was the one with

actual fucking feelings.

Silence returned, and suddenly, John realized he had just spoken everything

aloud, and the strength in his voice had cast off the disembodied breathing.

With a stinging nipping at his eyes, he quickly hung up the phone, and glared

accusingly at the skull. Perhaps someone had traded it with Sherlock's own

currently useless cranium, and his spirit was attached to it somehow and was

still unfeelingly wreaking havoc on John. "Sherlock... My best friend... Is

dead," the doctor ground out at grinning traitor, the dust-eaten

symbol of what all eventually befriends, what Sherlock befriended too early. "He

is dead, and you..." His voice tapered off as his head drooped, and his

shoulders began to shake noiselessly. "You should have saved him, Watson," he

whispered to himself, taking a moment between him and the skull before limping

back to the kitchen to make some tea.

The next noise he could identify was the whistle of the kettle, dancing on the

steam and putting on a familiarly soothing soundtrack.

He sat to sip his tea gingerly, his eyes staring sullenly out the window.

Another overcast day, he noted with an inhale, determining which direction the

clouds travelled in and figuring out the abstract art of pure nature. He saw a

curly mustache, some brains, and an elephant before draining his cup and

drowning once more into quiet.

Some cars whirred by outside, and there was a delicate patter of precipitation

on the kitchen window, and Mrs. Hudson was banging around downstairs making

bread, but all of it was subliminal. The demons weren't hissing, Sherlock wasn't

screaming "BORED" every minute or so, no one was shooting the wall. All of his

normal life's sounds had exited with his normal life, leaving him in the shell

of 221B and himself.

His dreams that night were deafening, filling his ears with the sound of his

screaming as he watched Sherlock plunging to his death, trying to run forward

and save him. But just as he was running forward, a giant forced knocked him

down, leaving him in tears and gasping for breath. Blinking through the pain, he

saw him- the snake, the demon.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," he drawled, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "It seems

you're too late, the game has ended." He stooped down and gently caressed John's

face, flicking away his tears as John screwed his eyes shut. "But don't worry,

my dear blogger." His blue eyes popped open at the silky baritone he had lost

long ago. And there he was, Sherlock Holmes, with a broken and bloody face and a

sick smile. "I'll play with you next."


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and a sore throat. Lack of sleep and stress had been taking its toll, throwing his immune system out of sorts. The doctor just lay in bed contemplating whether he should call in for that day. It was one of those days, where the concept of getting up and facing the world seemed impossible, as though stepping one foot out of bed would set him aflame and that would be that. Perhaps just waiting a few more minutes would give him more clarity, and more health. Maybe a shower would do him some good. Or, maybe Sherlock being alive would do him some good. But not today.

His hand delicately wove out from beneath the covers and came out to settle on his mobile on the nightstand. Sarah sounded rather impatient, threatening once again with the possibility of joblessness before grudgingly giving him the day off.

He limped sluggishly to the kitchen, catching the tendrils of dust and stagnancy on his clothes, feeling the more pertinent absence in the hollow of his chest. In his usual spot at the table, he continued staring out of the window unseeingly. The walls and time meshed together, creating an unwanted trip of blending paints and varying colors of the sky which all seemed to fall into the similar shape of Sherlock.

It was funny, John mused, how he could see Sherlock everywhere, yet he couldn't figure much out of a Rorschach blot or an Impressionist painting. He was a pragmatic military man who somehow managed to finagle words as he did weaponry. But there he was, the world's consulting detective, showing up as the clouds in his tea like Jesus does on flat bread.

He once brought up the concept with Mrs. Hudson, wondering if she too also saw Sherlock loping about, with his dark curls and upturned collar, but she didn't so much as remember the magnificent shade of his eyes. John though, he remembered everything. Which was probably why the phantom phone call had disturbed him so much- the voice on the other end of the line was so tangibly and unmistakably Sherlock, and with a voice comes a body, and John had no problem supplying an image to resonate absence.

The next event John could recall after his lamenting reverie was going to bed with his dearly departed friend on his mind.

Sleep that night was as fitful as the night before, with the sounds of men and cars being blown apart and the sensation of the quaking ground. It had been a while since John had been here, screaming the names of his men as if the sheer sound would capture the lights leaving their eyes until a better medic could come down and help them. He could feel the hot tears blurring his vision as the bullet hit his arm, and he could feel the hot ground beneath him as he crumpled in pain. His eyelids screwed up, a soft sob escaping his lips, but it sounded odd. Panic seized him as he opened his eyes, fearing possible damage to his temporal lobe when he saw familiar, lifeless blue eyes in front of him.

"No Sherlock, no..." he breathed desperately, ignoring his arm in favor of

checking the consulting detective's vitals. "Sherlock, what are you doing here, I told you to get me, I told you to stay with me, come on Sherlock, you have to stay with me..." No pulse, no breath, no fluttering eyelids.

"Sherlock...Sherlock please..."

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat in his regular chair, legs crossed and elbow resting on the arm of the chair with his chin resting in the crook between his thumb and forefinger, eyes fixed pointedly ahead. Mrs. Hudson quietly let him in for the umpteenth time, fixing a look of somber disapproval for the umpteenth time. But those gazes were puny and insignificant in comparison to the sobs and wails coming from his doctor's room. That was the reason Mrs. Hudson didn't keep Sherlock out. The silly woman worried each time that the screams elicited from the poor man were caused by the ripples of Moriarty's dying power, and Sherlock's presence assured her that he was fine, it was all just night terrors.<p>

But of course, night terrors were boring. Grief was also boring, as was supposed death and calling someone who has perfect vocal capabilities but refuses to speak. However, he realized boredom was the price to pay for the safety of the people he was… fond of, and that was something he had to live with. Damn that niggling fondness which is the weakness of all men, even the impregnable Sherlock Holmes.

He wandered about his mind palace as he waited for John to come-to, clearing out some files in one of his many cabinets and remembering the last time he was here while John was drugged with the power of suggestion. Another particularly piercing howl snapped Sherlock back, and he realized his

hand had turned into a white-knuckled fist. It wasn't logical, nor most importantly physically possible, to have one's hot heart residing completely in someone else. Sometimes he blamed Moriarty for it, implementing the power of suggestion once again to throw him off.

A quick glance at the clock told him that John would wake soon, saved by the

infuriating trill of his alarm clock. Most mornings, John would trudge down and catch a glimpse of Sherlock deftly escaping through their door, or going into his room, or maybe even notice the breeze brought on a window he never opened. He would make his tea, and perhaps once in a few days he'd have half a slice of toast with some jam. Sherlock knew this wasn't healthy, that John had sunk into a depression similar to the one he was in after Afghanistan.

He knew the limp was back and that John had been steadily hiding away his heavy, psychotropic pills for an unbearably rainy day. These were all of the primary reasons Sherlock decided to come back, but the main one was simple: he allowed himself to give in to peculiar instinct and feel human. For some reason, curling back up into his brain and solitude hurt his acuity and detachment, and that simply could not be. It took a while for Sherlock to realize what was missing from the hypothesis to produce an effective result, and he found that it was his flat mate. It wasn't a sappy dependency belonging to storybooks and romantic comedies; it was a tiny step in the procedure which proved crucial to an ideal outcome. John Watson was essential for a maximum output of Sherlock's intelligence, or as Sherlock imagined once or twice, the Alfred to his mind palace.

A soft patter of rain gave way to torrential downpour outside of the flat window, and a crack of lightning illuminated the room to wake the distressed doctor. His eyes opened with a snap, and as if on cue, a roll of thunder lumbered through the waves of precipitation. He felt the sting of tears and the dampness of sweat when he finally finished focusing on calming his breathing.

The clock on the stand passively stated the time as 4:12 AM. Lightning flashed through the open curtains, and the rain pounded even harder against the flimsy glass. The weather woman hadn't warned of a massive storm waking the residents of London like a freight train out of Hell, but John took as Mother Nature's sympathy to pull him out of his nightmare. In the rain, it seemed, everything just washed away for a while, leaving the base of the earth and taking away all of the grime and pain and blood.

What was more, rain, particularly the morning variety, was tea weather.

John swung his legs over the side of the bed with a grunt, allowed his feet to adapt to the cold, stood, stretched, and left in blind search of the stairs. A warm shiver travelled up his body as his foot hit the edge of the first step, limping down the rest of the way practically on the railing.

"Damn my leg."

"I thought I fixed it."

John froze, his hands gripping the end of the railing in painful fists. His eyes screwed shut as he realized he was still dreaming.

"It's all a dream, this isn't real..." A cold hand laid on his sweaty one, and his eyes snapped open once again to see the very alive irises of Sherlock Holmes in 221B Baker Street.

"Of course you're not dreaming, John. If you were, you certainly wouldn't have the foresight to realize it."

* * *

><p>John sat in silence for the better part of two hours, just staring into his cold tea and figuring out how to think again. In most of his daydreams, he imagined hugging his dear friend upon his return, or clapping him on the back, or at the very least calling him a bloody wanker for the stunt he pulled. Say something, anything, to truly mark how monumental this occasion was in relation to his deteriorated mental health. However, his frontal lobe seemed to have sustained a massive injury between the time he got out of bed and when he saw Sherlock, because not one coherent word could be formed. To be honest, he was more aware of Sherlock bustling about and disdainfully salvaging his skull from dust than his cerebellum was about maintaining proper posture or anything else. The dust motes were being set ablaze by the incendiary being that was Sherlock, taking with them the waves of absence.<p>

"John, you have had no brain injuries, no danger, no trauma of any kind. So

_speak_," Sherlock bit impatiently, quitting his pacing and fixing a passive glare on the doctor.

A word rose up in his throat like a lead balloon, threatening to blow him to bits if saying it was the magic word to wake him from this dream, this absolute dream where he felt so...happy. Dare he say it? Dare he succumb to this demon which had been attempting to draw him out since its materialization on the telephone? He registered a huff of aggravation and suddenly Sherlock's palms slapped down on the table in front of John, lowering himself to meeting John's own eyes with his own annoyed ones.

"John. Speak."

"Huh-" He stopped to clear his throat, shaking his head and blinking to shake the front of his brain back into gear. "Hello."

A grin split Sherlock's face in two before he dashed out of the flat yet again.

* * *

><p>And there goes chapter 3. I really hope this story is worth something of a damn, please feel free to tell me if it isn't. But I will say this: I feel like I might actually finish it. Luckily, Sherlock is not getting old for me at all.<p> 


End file.
